


So Many Ways To Tell Me You Care

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Caring is the bravest thing you can do. To some people it comes naturally. To a Holmes, it's more challenging.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	So Many Ways To Tell Me You Care

He finished work more or less on time for once, and by the time he got out of New Scotland Yard there was still light in the sky. A discreet black car pulled out of a parking space down the street and purred towards him, and thanks to John he did have the sense to check that he recognised the car and driver. After a few days of radio silence from both Holmes brothers, more welcome in one case than the other, he’d almost expected it, although a text would have done just as well. What he hadn’t expected was to slide in and find the back seat already occupied. Mycroft waited until the door was closed and they had the security of the tinted windows before he leaned over to kiss Greg quickly. “I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch,” he said when he pulled back. “I would have called ahead but we were passing.”

Greg looked him over, and though he didn’t see as much as Mycroft probably saw in him there was enough to be going on. He’d slept, and not badly at that, but he’d been skipping meals again. A busy few days that had reached their climax the day before, then. “’s alright,” he assured him. “It’s good to see you, and I’d probably have ended up coming over anyway.”

Mycroft looked pleased. “I rather hoped you might. I have things in for dinner, if you don’t mind…”

“Not at all.” They usually met for lunch somewhere in Westminster, convenient for work, and occasionally for drinks after one of Sherlock’s cases. But for dinner they usually went to Mycroft’s. It was less likely that anyone would spot them, and more convenient for the bedroom. They crawled through the London traffic to Mycroft’s flat, on a quiet suburban street a few doors down from the Jordanian embassy, and waited for the driver to open Mycroft’s door before they piled out and he let them in. Once they were secure in Mycroft’s flat, Greg was surprised by Mycroft cupping his face for a kiss, swift but soft, before they’d even got their shoes off. “Hello to you too,” he said gently. “Rough week?”

“To say the least.” He sighed. “But that’s not why…”

Greg caught his hand when he stumbled over his thoughts. “It’s okay. Tea?”

Mycroft nodded sharply and led the way to the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and steered the conversation back to safer waters. Sometimes Greg wished he could plonk Sherlock between them, get him to deduce them and spell out in as many words as he liked exactly what was going on between them, because God knew Mycroft couldn’t do it. He could negotiate complex trade deals with his opposite numbers across the EU without the aid of a translator and spot the hidden patterns in any of Greg’s cases instantly, but when it came to emotions, most of the time he couldn’t see what was in front of his face and couldn’t have put words to it if he could. But he knew what Sherlock would make of it, and knew perhaps better even than Mycroft how cruel it would be to expose him to that. So instead he volunteered his help with cooking dinner – salmon fillets that had been marinating all day, with steamed vegetables and new potatoes – and did his part to keep the conversation light.

They ate and drank their tea, and when they’d finished Mycroft opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a large glass. Greg took a sip and watched him, and was surprised when he sat back down at the table instead of making straight for either the lounge or the bedroom. He played with the stem of his wine glass and avoided Greg’s gaze whilst he put his thoughts in order. “The affair with Irene Adler reached its conclusion last week,” he said at last. “With typically momentous results.”

“She is alive, then? Who’s she slept with this time?”

He smiled humourlessly. “Not my brother, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although not for lack of trying, as I understand it. What do you know about Coventry?”

“The city?”

“The conundrum.” Mycroft looked up at him at last. “It dates from the Second World War, although I’m sure it has challenged many before and since. If you were made aware of an attack that would claim civilian lives and were thus able to prevent it, but by doing so would reveal your sources and risk more lives, what would you do?”

He looked down into his glass whilst he thought about it. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You mean like a bombing or something?”

“In the original case it was the Coventry Blitz. In this case a bomb on a plane.” Mycroft’s gaze was steady when Greg looked up at him. “We aimed to allow the plane to be destroyed, but without a single life lost. Alas, Miss Adler had Sherlock decode a message for her, and informed Moriarty.”

“Shit.”

Mycroft smiled. “Quite. It could, however, have been worse. Our sources were not revealed. Only our knowledge of the plot. And Sherlock finally got into that damned phone.”

“That’s something. But wait, how was Moriarty involved?”

He sighed. “As he always is. Miss Adler approached him with information, and he used it to create mischief. Truthfully, I do not even know if he was involved in the plot, or whether he simply enjoys seeing us scramble in fear that he was.” He tapped his fingers on the table top. “He gave her everything she needed to play us, me and Sherlock. And if she hadn’t been so committed, she would have walked away with the prize.”

Greg watched him. “That’s what’s upset you? That he knows how to get to you?”

“No. It’s…” He sighed. “He has nicknames for us. Sherlock he calls the Virgin. And I am the Iceman.”

“Dick,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft laughed at that, surprising himself by the looks of it. “Not quite my precise words but a concise summary. However I must admit, I was… relieved.” He looked up and read god-knows-what in Greg’s face. “Perhaps something is still hidden from him.”

“He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks?”

“He doesn’t know about you.” Mycroft steeled himself and looked down at the table. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Greg nodded. “I’m not exactly keen to get on his radar more than I probably already am.”

“Gregory…” He looked up at last and again fumbled for words. “I told Sherlock, on Christmas Eve in the morgue, that caring is not an advantage. I still believe that.” He lifted his hand from the table, though, and traced trembling fingers down Greg’s cheek and along his jaw. “Like our need for food and sleep, it is a weakness that can be exploited. And yet… just as essential.”

His breath caught and he reached up to cover Mycroft’s hand with his own, press it closer against his cheek. “It depends what you make of it. I get it, it scares the shit out of me sometimes. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes when I’m having a shit day, I think about coming round here, or just calling you, and it makes the day easier. I hope that…”

“Yes,” Mycroft said quickly. “I… Yes. Knowing that you are here. Or if not here then somewhere.” He sighed. “I apologise. I’m probably not making much sense, I realise.”

“You’re doing fine. Look, I left any expectation of normal behind pretty much the day I met you. Didn’t expect we’d end up here either, but I’m okay with that too. I’m not going anywhere, no matter what your brother, the Irish prick or anyone else decide to throw at us, okay?” He pulled Mycroft’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “You tell me what you want to tell me, nothing more and nothing less, in whatever words you can find. We’ll get there in the end, even if it takes us a bit longer.”

“How do you find so many ways to tell me you care, when I struggle to find even one?” He sighed again. “Perhaps that is for the best. After all, who would expect me to have someone I so feared to lose?”

Greg squeezed his hand. “Anyone who knows you at all well. They might not realise I’m on the list though. So we’ll take that as a win, right? Moriarty doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does.”

“A win indeed.” He squeezed Greg’s hand and stood up in a languid, deliberately relaxed motion. “And I intend to keep it that way. There is, after all, only one person I am particularly interested in knowing me well.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "So Many Ways To Tell Me You Care"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27523048) by [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake)




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